


I'd Be A Heavenly Person Today

by solange_annick



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Mute(ish) character, ah the feminine fantasy of being completely unhinged, exploration of malcolm through another, martin semi-adopts a murder child, title is from Blue Monday, we need more female serial killers thank you very much, what's going on at claremont
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:48:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29118516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solange_annick/pseuds/solange_annick
Summary: When a serial killer leaves the deformed and cannibalized bodies of wealthy men in the lap of the NYPD, Malcolm Bright turns to his father for answers.  While fascinated with the case, Dr. Whitly refers Malcolm to a fellow Claremont inmate- who is complicated in their own right.
Comments: 24
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

“Okay,” Malcolm took in the scene before him. “When you said different, you really did mean it.”

“Uh huh,” Gil nodded. “Edrisa will fill you in.”

On cue, the forensic pathologist bounced forward with an unmistakable grin. “Bright, you’re going to love this!” She beckoned the pair to follow her through the penthouse apartment. “Watch your step! Don’t want to mess up your nice shoes.”

Malcolm grinned, heeding her advice. “Do we have a cause of death? Amidst... all of this?”

“Still working on that,” Edrisa bent down next to the body (at least, what was left of it). “So much damage has been done that I’ll have to take everything back to the lab and do a thorough examination. But, this is pretty interesting.” 

Gently, Edrisa opened the previously sewn shut mouth. 

“They...” Malcolm’s brows furrowed. “Took the teeth?”

“Why is that interesting- compared to everything else?” Gil interjected.

“Well,” Edrisa said. “There are several parts of the body that are not accounted for. The teeth, the heart, the genitals, and the hands. The teeth are what the killer tried to cover up, hence the sewn mouth. This was deliberate, thoughtful.”

Malcolm surveyed the room and body, building a profile. “What do we know about the victim?”

Behind him, Gil flipped through a file. “Howard Hughes. 38 years old. Stockbroker. New money rich. Single. Worked at Lunar Financing.”

“Pull his bank records.”

“You think this is financially motivated?”

“Not sure,” Malcolm stood. “This is something the killer has fantasized about. The- the dismemberment, it’s a statement. A revenge. This is the killer’s way of taking back power. An expression of how they feel- how Hughes made them feel. This was not a randomly chosen victim. They knew each other.”

“So…” Dani spoke up, stepping from behind Gil. “We’re looking for someone he wronged? An ex-girlfriend? I mean, he’s a stockbroker. A lot of people have gotta hate him.”

“No,” Malcolm shook his head. “It goes deeper than that.”

* * *

Mid-morning sun shone into a window at just the angle to reflect off a vase and into the eyes of Dr. Mallory- the head of psychiatry at Claremont Psychiatric Hospital. He adjusted his antique chair just so, and his patient came into focus. 

The young woman lounged on his sofa, one foot dangling off the armrest and the other planted on the ground. Her face was obscured by a book: _ “The Mists of Avalon,” _ and another rested on her chest:  _ “The Hobbit.” _ She always carried two- in case she finished the first one early. 

“Are we going to talk today, Ava?” Dr. Mallory asked. He turned his chair away from the sun a bit more.

No response. 

“Well,” he said. “If we’re not going to talk, I’m going to do some paperwork. Which is, definitely, not a surprise.”

The doctor watched Ava for a moment, waiting to see if she would break. They’d been at this for three years. Ava Morvois did not speak when she was arrested. She did not speak during her sentencing. She did not speak when she was transferred to Claremont. She hasn’t spoken. Not a single word. 

Most serial killers gloat and swap murder-stories like baseball cards. Ava listened. Her eyes followed the speaker, her body language was engaged, and (every so often) she would have an expression. One that wasn’t a blank stare with wide eyes. Her veil of innocence perfectly disguised thirty gruesome murders- all before the age of eighteen. 

Ava was a bonafide curiosity. Psychologists and psychiatrists tested her in every nonverbal manner that existed. Female serial killers were rare. Young female serial killers with a high body count? Unthought of. Ava’s perfectly capable of speaking, but the exact nature of her mutism remained unknown. 

Morvois tested high on the IQ scale; had a propensity for patterns, puzzles, and chess; and had read her way through most of the hospital’s library. Dr. Mallory half-expected her to move objects around his office with her mind- like a darker version of Matilda. If Matilda had murdered Trunchbull instead of scaring her away.

Dr. Mallory sighed and rubbed his eyes. Through his fingers, he noticed Ava peeking around her book. “Yes?”

She stood and ran her hands through her dark, curly hair. It was now down to her waist and completely unruly.  _ Note to self, _ Dr. Mallory thought.  _ Tell one of the nurses to actually take care of her hair. Maybe it’s time for a haircut. _

Ava gently held the white king on Dr. Mallory’s office chessboard and pointedly looked at him. 

“Your game with Dr. Whitly is tomorrow.”

She grimaced and slammed the piece back down in frustration. Just over a year ago, Dr. Mallory organized an hospital-wide chess tournament. Something for a change of pace. The winner of the women’s ward against the winner of the men’s ward obviously resulted in a match between Ava Morvois and Martin Whitly. The two were, albeit insane, the most intelligent of Claremont. 

Morvois and Whitly were an unlikely match. Ava seemed to appreciate Martin’s friendly demeanor and his (twisted) respect of her past and silence. Martin enjoyed the constant attention and how he had a better relationship with Ava than Dr. Mallory. She fed his ego and he fed her (apparent) need for companionship. 

Ava beat Dr. Whitly at the first game. Surprisingly, he wasn’t that upset-yet still called for a rematch. It had become a routine. Twice a week, for the past year, the two played chess for 45 minutes. 

“Please sit,” Dr. Mallory motioned the couch. “Something has come up that I want to discuss.” 

She huffed in protest, but obliged. Ava pulled her flannel sweater around herself and nodded- signaling that she was ready. 

“Well,” he flipped through her file. “It’s been noted that you’ve gone on yet another hunger strike and you’ve stopped sleeping in your bed, but under it. I thought we’d solved that problem?”

Ava pulled her legs up to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. She held herself tight- becoming smaller. Her dark eyes avoided the doctor’s gaze and focused on the paisley carpet pattern. 

“The bed is not as urgent,” Dr. Mallory continued. “But if you refuse to eat, you know what happens. You have the scar. Think about it every time you don’t eat.”

Silence hung in the air. Nearly a year and half ago, she didn’t eat or drink for days. She, obviously, offered no explanation and Dr. Mallory was more than content to wait her out. He expected her to break within a week or two. Hell, she was only 101 pounds and dropping. What damage could she do? 

Apparently, quite a lot. 

During evening medication rounds one of the orderlies decided to forego protocol. Protocol that dictated Ava Morvois to be restrained in a straight jacket while administering medication. It existed because of the very crimes that landed her in Claremont. The orderly believed she wasn’t a threat and when he pried Ava’s mouth open, she grabbed him. Using her nails, she tore at the skin around his forearms. Then, she bit down. Hard. Ripped two of the orderly’s fingers off with her bare teeth. 

When backup finally arrived, she had reduced a man twice her size to a bloody mess. He survived but Ava had taken her pound of flesh. Literally. 

She was restrained and had a feeding tube inserted into her stomach. Ava didn’t seem to be bothered about nearly killing a man, but was enraged by the feeding tube. She’d stare daggers into Dr. Mallory when he visited the urgent care ward, as if to say:  _ How dare you? I trusted you! _

Now, whenever she refused to eat, all Dr. Mallory had to do was remind her of the feeding tube. More than once, he heard that she’d lift up her shirt and just stare at and touch the scar- as if in disbelief. 

Dr. Mallory never learned exactly why Ava attacked the orderly. There had been plenty of opportunities to commit acts of violence while at Claremont. Besides that particular incident, she was a model inmate (as much as a convicted serial killer could be). 

_ Beep! _ Mallory’s secretary, Jane, came on speakerphone. “NYPD on line one for you, sir.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Go ahead and have Ava taken back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The office door opened to an orderly with handcuffs. Ava looked between the orderly and Dr. Mallory, brows furrowed. 

“Apologies, Ava. I’m going to have to cut our meeting short today.”

* * *

“Malcolm!” Martin Whitly grinned. “My boy! What can I do for you today?”

The profiler shifted from foot to foot, holding the case file. Malcolm wasn’t sure if he hated or enjoyed these small moments with his father, bonding over murder. No. No. He hated it. He was sure. “We have a possible serial killer.”

“Ooooh,” Martin eyed the file. “Those are always fun. And my specialty!”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Do you know anything about a serial killer that takes the teeth, heart, hands, and genitals?”

“Maybe,” Martin sat down at his desk. “That’s quite a grocery list. Not to mention time consuming.”

“Grocery list?” 

“Figure of speech,” Martin said, waving his hand. “How many victims?”

“Uh,” Malcolm flipped through the file and placed it in front of his father. “Six so far. All within the past three months and across four states.”

“Busy, busy,” he spread the crime scene photos across the desk, as best he could while shackled. “And messy.”

“All the victims were male and killed in their place of residence. Usually rich. Ages between 28 and 55. And,” Malcolm paused. “Each residence was locked from the inside.”

“Interesting. You know, Malcolm,” Martin leaned back. “I have a chess game tomorrow with a good friend of mine. 10 am. You should come.”

Malcolm blinked. “Are… are you telling me to come back later?”

His father chuckled. “For once, yes. Yes, I am,” Martin shook his head, as if in disbelief at himself. “I think you’d learn quite a lot. Consider it a… doctor’s referral.”

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Ava chewed on her lip. Thirteen moves in and her opponent, Martin Whitly, had the upper hand. Normally, the game would be closer to a draw before one of them pulled ahead unexpectedly in the third portion. The score between the two was 76-74, narrowly in Ava’s favor. She couldn’t fall apart this easy.

“You’re looking a bit thin,” Martin commented. “I heard you’re on one of your hunger strikes. As much an orderly being maimed liveans this place up, I’d really prefer it if you didn’t because it cuts into our lovely games here. They’re truly one of the highlights of my week.”

She glanced at Martin through her curls. He was relaxed and clearly expected to win. 

Ava shifted her knight and took a bishop. 

“Interesting,” he leaned over the board. “You haven’t done that in quite awhile. I believe you followed a similar pattern during our thirty-second game?”

The day sprung forth in her mind. March 16th, 2018. Snowing. Ava had just finished  _ To Kill A Mockingbird.  _ Dr. Mallory had asked her 132 ‘yes’ and ‘no’ questions during their session. Ava’s king fell in 25 moves. 

She timidly nodded. 

“I do believe that-”

The security buzz for the rec room doors interrupted Dr. Whitly and a smartly dressed man stepped in with two guards. Ava studied him for a moment, suddenly entranced with this new character in her territory. It didn’t take long for her eyes to glide to the manila envelope he carried. A new puzzle. 

“Malcolm!” Martin grinned. “My boy!”

Ava examined the two, quickly finding similarities. So this was the famous Malcolm Bright? Shorter than she imagined.

“Hello, Dr. Whitly,” Malcolm said curtly. He awkwardly nodded to Ava.

“Oh, how rude of me!” Martin exclaimed. “This is who I was telling you about. She’s a dear friend of mine. Amazing body of work! A true prodigy. Not to mention an excellent chess player, even though this match isn’t up to par. Malcolm, this is Ava Morvois.”

Ava blushed at Martin’s praise. She picked at her sleeve and timidly smiled at Malcolm.

“Ava Morvois,” Malcolm’s raised eyebrows and mixed tone indicated judgement and awe. “Twenty-nine known killings. Active between the ages of fifteen and eighteen. Youngest, most prolific female serial killer to date. You’re… twenty-one now?”

Martin spoke, halting the impending awkward silence. “She doesn’t talk,” he grinned. “Great listener, though.”

She raised her brows and smirked, affirming Martin’s statement. Suddenly impatient, Ava shifted positions, now crouched on the seat to get a better view of the game. She’d lost interest in Malcolm. Dr. Whitly needed to move a piece. 

“Is she who...?” Malcolm asked, obviously referring to a previous conversation.

“Yes. I be-”

Ava tapped the table.

“Oh, yes!” Martin redirected his attention. “My turn.” He carefully moved a rook without taking one of Ava’s pieces. 

Ava felt Malcolm’s wide-eyed stare. For once, she didn’t mind the critical eye of a psychologist. An aura of fearful respect hung in the air. She toyed with a lock of hair before moving her queen. 

If Dr. Whitly followed his current course, based on past games and patterns, then Ava should have a checkmate in five moves. At most.

“She’s got you,” Malcolm broke the tension. “Impressive, really.”

“How many moves?” Martin asked.

Ava held up a hand. 

“Five?” 

She beamed.

“I had you! Malcolm here threw me off my rhythm!” Martin feigned outrage, which brought a small chuckle out of his son. 

Malcolm pulled up a seat (one of the few not bolted to the ground) and sat at respectfully safe distance. “I’ll play you if you help me with something, Ava.”

Her eyes darted between Malcolm, Martin, and the chess board. It would be nice to play someone new. Not to mention- interesting to find how father and son compare. But the game was still unfinished. Checkmate needed to be called and the king needed to fall. 

“Go ahead,” Martin spoke gently, nodding to the board. “You can finish it.”

Ava’s thin hands glided over the board- speedrunning the rest of the game. Performing the ever-important last moves with a deep sense of urgency. Finally, she knocked over Dr. Whitly’s king. 

“Good girl,” Martin praised. Ava cut him a sharp look and he hastily corrected himself. “Good job. Very well done.”

She turned, adjusting herself in the chair, and took in the sight of Malcolm Whitly. The profiler was certainly handsome. His long hair was slicked back, which was a shame. Ava imagined that it would frame his face well, but perhaps unkempt hair was unprofessional. Still, he reminded her of a boy who grew up near her, who she’d go wading in creeks with. Perhaps that was the reason Ava felt a sense of trust. Or that she already knew so much about him. 

Malcolm awkwardly cleared his throat. It was obvious he wasn’t familiar such abrupt pauses in conversation.

“Well,” Dr. Whitly started. “Malcolm is working on a case with the NYPD. Now, I know you have a, uh, particular dislike of the police, but I think you’ll find this very interesting, Ava. Malcolm, show her.”

Malcolm began handing crime scene photos to Ava, who studied them with unflinching curiosity. “Six victims across four states, all male. Killed in their own homes. Aged from late-twenties to mid-fifties,” he paused. “And now I realize why my father is asking you to take a look.”

Dr. Whitly leaned forward and whispered with excitement. “All killed in rooms locked from the  _ inside _ ! Very similar to yours’, no?”

Ava remained focused on the photos and grinned at the words. Dr. Whitly was correct. It was exactly like hers’. Even the methodology was similar, but no doubt Malcolm had already put it together.

“You have a copycat,” Malcolm concluded. 

She tilted her head.  _ Not quite _ . 

Gathering the photos in a stack, Ava hopped down off the chair and sat on the ground (as much as her tether would allow). She spread them around her, thinking, choosing. What would work best? 

Ava tore one of the photos. Purposefully. 

“Uh, oh,” Martin said, without a hint of worry. “I hope you have copies.”

Malcolm didn’t respond, but instead sat on the ground across from Ava. She glanced at him- happy he wasn’t towering over her. He must have sensed Ava feeling uncomfortable before. It was also an amusing sight: an expensively dressed former-FBI profiler sitting cross-legged on an asylum floor with a barefoot patient who was chained to a wall. 

Several minutes passed, punctuated by Ava disassembling the crime scene photos. She focused on shapes and colors, not necessarily the photos’ content themselves. Body parts became mere props. Lines found in limbs, frames in pools of blood, structure in exposed bone. The corpse was merely an amalgamation of parts to be recycled into another whole. 

The artwork filled the space between Malcolm and Ava, nearly two by three feet. Any gaps, with the tile staring through, gave Ava pause. The space had to be filled. The scene she was recreating didn’t contain large blotches of nothingness. Ava inwardly laughed at the irony of how nothing could possibly be made of nothing. How sophomoric. At least she thought it was. She’d never been a sophomore, so Ava had no basis of  _ “sophomorism.” _ One of the many great tragedies of the young Ava Morvois. 

Ava felt the mens’ eyes on her and her work. Dr. Whitly was, unfortunately, tethered and could only see from an angle. Surprisingly, he remained quiet. Both father and son were completely fixated on the image before them. Ava smugly realized that, for the moment, she maintained power and control over the two- without speaking a single word. 

She caught Malcolm’s gaze. Blue met brown. Ava saw something she hadn’t seen for a very, very long time. 

_ Empathy. _

She broke away and hid behind her mane of curls. 

Her mind recalibrated to the task at hand. At last, the vibration deep within Ava’s bones ceased and contentment washed over her. It felt right. Proper. The image was complete.

Ava chewed on her thumbnail and surveyed her work. The macabre collage surely was enough to help Malcolm with this crime, but she couldn’t make it  _ too _ easy. If he brought a puzzle to her, then she was going to give him one in return. 

She nodded to no one in particular and climbed back into her chair, resuming the awkward position of hugging her legs with her chin resting on her knees. Ava blinked at Malcolm, who was taking in her artwork. 

“Okay,” Martin said. “Very creative. Not sure if this counts as art therapy, given the images,” he laughed, amusing himself. “I believe the term is outsider art. Isn’t it, Malcolm?”

“Hm,” Malcolm hummed in a non-reply. “This is what you saw in the photos?”

Ava nodded, avoiding eye contact. She felt restless again, and quietly began to reset the chessboard. Unwillingly, her right hand shook. Malcolm didn’t notice- engrossed in examining Ava’s work. But Dr. Whitly did. 

“Breathe,” he instructed. It wasn’t necessarily a fatherly tone, but closer to a doctor’s with an edge of annoyance. “Can’t play chess with a shaky hand. Isn’t that right, Malcolm?”

At last, the profiler looked up, brows knitted in confusion as to who his father was speaking to. “Huh?”

Ava hastily wrapped her arm around her knees, hiding the tremor, and cast her gaze downwards. It wasn’t a new symptom of  _ whatever-diagnosis-Dr.Mallory-chose-today _ and had cursed her since childhood. The shakiness only disappeared after- no, during- her first kill. When Ava first tore a man’s heart out of his chest, her hand had been steady as a surgeon’s and her inner-self slid into nirvana. After her arrest and placement at Claremont, Ava’s blissful hiatus from the tremor ended. Her hand shook whenever her mind became unfocused, unclear. Books, medication, and chess with Dr. Whitly (who was more than happy to talk about how his son suffered from the same ailment) helped. 

Malcolm watched Ava for a moment, with his father watching him. “I use a stress ball,” he said. “In fact,” Malcolm stood, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small blue ball. He smiled warmly at Ava. “Here.”

Uncertainty washed over Ava, but nevertheless, she gingerly took the ball Malcolm offered to her. While Malcolm could hide the ball completely in his grasp, Ava’s grasp was smaller- more delicate. Ava might have well been handed a faberge egg. 

Honey-like tension filled the room. The guards leaned forward with anticipation, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Even Martin Whitly held his breath when Malcolm gently wrapped Ava’s shaky hand around the object, encouraging her to squeeze. She complied and Malcolm pulled away.

For the first time since she came to Claremont, even before then, Ava allowed for the intimacy of human touch to be met without hostility. Perhaps it was the lack of ulterior motive on Malcolm’s part. Or that Ava was given a gift. Or that the exchange was unexpected. It wasn’t until later that night, while holding the little blue ball in her cell, that Ava realized why she allowed Malcolm to escape unscathed. 

Malcolm had not just given Ava a ball, but a moment of genuine kindness. Something Ava Morvois was wholly unaccustomed to. 

* * *

“You gotta admit,” JT stood with Malcolm, Dani, and Gil at the opposite end of the conference room. “This is weird.”

“Yeah,” Dani agreed. “I feel weird just looking at it.”

“Is this supposed to be like one of those Monet paintings?” Gil asked.

“Like in Clueless?” Malcolm replied. The other three turned to him with various levels of, well, cluelessness. “Oh, there’s a joke in the movie about this girl being a Monet. You know, a girl being cute from far away but up close she’s a big mess?” 

Silence.

“So,” Gil drawled. “Your dad knows Ava Morvois. And she made this? From the crime scene photos?”

“They play chess together,” Malcolm’s enthusiasm was bubbling at the surface. “And this… is  _ incredible _ . Morbidity aside, Morvois hasn’t spoken a word since her arrest. This is the first substantial communication she’s had with, well, anybody in years. It’s really a profiler’s dream. If we could figure out what it represented- what she was trying to convey- it would be a groundbreaking discovery into her psyche.”

“Why would she make...this?” Dani asked, gesturing to the gigantic photo they’d printed out from Malcolm’s phone. “What connection does it have to the case?”

“Both Morvois and this killer have a similar MO. Both acted out of extreme anger but demonstrated meticulous planning and foresight- further implied through this collage. She didn’t hesitate when putting the pieces together. Morvois was working toward a clear end goal, image, representation. This isn’t random. She saw the photos and deliberately chose to create what is in front of us,” Malcolm grinned. He began to pace, working off his giddy energy. “The only difference between Morvois and this killer is that this killer took all of the teeth. Morvois only took the canines. That could be a result of Morvois’ personal strength at the time. It takes quite a lot of leverage and power to pull every single tooth. I noticed that Morvois had issues with focus. She couldn’t stand pauses in activity.”

“Sounds like someone I know,” JT joked. Gil frowned at him.

Malcolm didn’t notice or ignored JT. “Which implies that this killer is more patient. Stronger. Almost compensating for what Morvois couldn’t physically do.”

“I mean, she did do a lot of damage during her murders,” Dani commented.

“So, do you think this one will escalate?” Gil asked. 

Malcolm stared at Ava’s work, thinking. “I don’t know,” he mumbled, clearly not liking his answer. 

Any further conversation was halted by Edrisa practically skipping into the room. “So, fun fact, most of the injuries to the victims were pre-mortem. My best cause of death for at least four of them is the removal of the heart.  _ Very _ Indiana Jones. The other two, it can go either blood loss or removal of the heart. Obviously, if someone did not die of blood loss, then they would  _ definitely _ die their heart is ripped from their chest cavity.” She noticed Ava’s collage on the board. “Oh, that is a very good depiction of victim number three’s bedroom! Who did this? It’s incredible.” 

A stunned silence came over the other four. 

Finally, Malcolm spoke up. “Ava Morvois.”

“Ava Morvois?” Edrisa’s eyes lit up. “ _ The serial killer? _ Did you find out how she knows the victim?”

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for y'all's support and love! Don't tell the other fandoms, but I think you guys are by far the most welcoming and friendly. Every comment and kudos means everything to me.


	3. Chapter 3

The detectives, Malcolm, and Edrisa’s team flooded William Spears’ spacious penthouse apartment. It was still a crime scene, which gave the team unlimited access to the space- despite what the landlord said. 

“Hey,” the stocky, unshaven building owner stood in the doorway. He had already been enough of a nuisance, insisting that the elevator didn’t work, which resulted in Gil tolerating semi-drunk rambling for over thirty floors- only for Malcolm to step out of the elevator two minutes after they reached the top. “No property damage, alright? I’m already operating at a loss here, with you lot not letting me rent it out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” Gil said. “We can take it from here.”

The landlord shook his head, muttered something about needing a cigarette, and shut the door. It was obvious he wasn’t leaving the hallway and was probably lighting on the fire escape. 

“So,” Gil turned to Malcolm, who was standing in the living room, examining a copy of Ava’s collage. “What are you thinking?”

Malcolm’s brows furrowed. “I think Morvois is trying to lead us to something. Look, she left the crime scene markers intact. She’s pointing us to evidence.”

“Okay,” Gil rubbed his face. Great. “I want every single object in this house accounted for, photographed, and catalogued. If there’s a connection between her murders and Spears, then he's a suspect. Despite being a victim.”

“I found something!” Edrisa called from the bedroom.

“That was fast,” JT remarked, brows raised. “But why am I surprised?”

The four entered the expensively decorated (yet minimalistic) bedroom. The outer wall was entirely glass, shining bright morning sun into the room. Not much privacy, but if you’re in a penthouse there isn’t much opportunity for others to be looking in. 

Edrisa sat on the ground, peering under the vanity. “There’s debris underneath here, indicating some sort of activity or movement.”

“Such as a drawer or something?” Malcolm asked. “I mean, all the furniture appears to be handcrafted, which usually means hidden compartments are probably involved.”

“Does your furniture have hidden compartments?” JT asked.

Malcolm laughed. “Just what my mom keeps. Nothing in my apartment.”

The ME confirmed Malcolm’s earlier theory with a thumbs up. “It's where one of the crime scene markers are in the collage.”

“Okay,” Dani shrugged. “Let’s move it then.”

Before she could even place her hand on the vanity, Malcolm jumped- as if struck by lighting. “Wait!”

Everyone froze.

“Think about who we’re dealing with,” his eyes went wide. “We were led to this by a serial killer. Someone who is _insanely_ smart. Ava Morvois killed nearly thirty people without being caught. She has an intense disdain for law enforcement,” Malcolm slowly pointed at the vanity. “What if this was a trap?”

“By Morvois?” Dani shook her head. “She’s been in Claremont for years. There’s no way she could set a trap.”

“I know,” Malcolm said. “But she obviously knows Spears. What if Spears set a trap that she knows about?”

“Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. But if this is something that Morvois is willing to break her silence with, then it's more or less… problematic,” Malcolm said. “But that doesn’t make it any less important. We need whatever is behind there. And intact. We can’t do that if we’re dead or whatever it is, is destroyed.”

“Finally,” JT said. “Some foresight.”

“Should I call the bomb squad?” Gil asked.

“Probably. But,” Malcolm pulled out a flashlight and peered behind the vanity. “I don’t see anything connecting the furniture to the wall, nor do I see any indentions or abrasions where a panel might be.”

“Perhaps it's under a floorboard or something?” Edrisa asked. 

“Hm,” Malcolm bent down. He slowly began to open the drawers. 

“Bright!”

Malcolm ignored Gil and continued, placing the drawers on the ground. The drawers were filled with various clothes and knicknacks, which Edrisa studied carefully. Suddenly, a click. 

The air in the room froze and the detectives stared at each other nervously. Malcolm only focused on the task at hand, now knowing he was on the right track. He used his flashlight to study the inside of the empty vanity, searching for the source of the noise. 

Finally, a wood switch came into view, previously obscured by the drawers. It had been moved into a notch by the movement of removing the drawers. Malcolm carefully reached in and pressed down. 

A panel on the bottom of the interior flipped up, revealing a cylindrical tube with disks of letters. 

“A cryptex!” Edrisa gasped. 

“A what?” Dani bent down next to Malcolm and Edrisa.

“A cryptex is like a safety deposit box,” Malcolm turned it over in his hands. “It usually contains a piece of paper with some sort of message or a small object. It was actually invented by Dan Brown, the author of The Da Vinci Code. In the book, it contained a piece of papyrus wrapped around a tube of vinegar. Attempting to break open the cryptex would crack the tube, spill vinegar into the chamber, which would dissolve the papyrus. They’ve become quite popular, actually.”

“So,” Gil started. “What does this one contain?”

“No idea,” Malcolm grinned. “But it must be pretty valuable. I mean, this is an expensive cryptex. It's made of metal and marble. Also,” he examined the ends. “It appears to have been opened multiple times. So whatever’s inside is probably reusable, a reference, or is changed out.”

He passed it over to Edrisa, who studied it with the same excited fascination. 

“Why would Morvois lead us to this?” Dani asked.

“Well,” Malcolm stood. “She’s very cerebral. She likes puzzles, chess, patterns. The- the collage was just a puzzle for us to solve. It makes sense for her to lead us to another puzzle.”

“So what?” JT crossed his arms. “She’s sending us on a treasure hunt?”

“Why can’t she just, you know, tell us?” Dani asked. 

“Because there’s no game,” Malcolm began to pace. “There’s nothing to bring us back to her. It’s a challenge. Not out of hate or dislike. No, it’s out of respect. Ava Morvois plays chess with my father every single week. He’s going to talk about the cases, how they’re solved, who we are. She’s probably been sitting on the knowledge that this existed for years and has just been waiting for the right people to solve. Someone she’d respect. Who’d respect her. Who’d respect the puzzle.”

Malcolm looked down at the cryptex in Edrisa’s hands. “This is just the first thread.”

* * *

Ava walked between the library stacks, searching for her next adventure. She’d nearly finished the entire library- even the most boring, awfully written books were worth the distraction over the past several years. 

If Ava had chosen a different life, she’d be in college now. Or not. Entirely dependent upon whether or not her financial situation had improved since she was 18. She doubted it would’ve. Claremont was the most consistent, plentiful housing Ava ever had. A bed, three meals a day, medical care, clothing, books, and more were a luxury in her eyes. While many other patients bemoaned their circumstances, Ava found herself lucky to no longer have to fill her mind with such things. Now she could focus on what she wanted- only limited by her imagination. 

She ran her hand over the paperbacks, frowning at the selection. Dr. Whitly had promised to loan her one of his medical texts, but that had its limitations. Ava doubted he’d be willing to actually part with one of the tomes from his cell. More likely that their chess sessions will slowly be replaced with quiet lectures bent over books. Either way, Ava just needed something to fill her head. 

Perhaps she could encourage Malcolm Whitly to provide her with more books. Ones she could keep. How Ava could communicate that without talking would be a challenge, but the younger Whitly seemed adept at understanding her.

“Five minutes, Morvois.”

Ava glared at the guard. Why Claremont allowed male guards in the women’s ward evaded Ava. Each one seemed more than happy to abuse their position. Gary, the guard currently watching Ava, was one of the worst. After Ava maimed one of the previous guards, Gary immediately took on the now-vacant role of the resident slimeball. 

Oh, how she’d love to tear out his throat with her bare teeth. Dig her fingernails into his flesh and rip out his collarbones. Gouge out his beady eyes that dared to even perceive her as a commodity. 

If anything, Ava Morvois was patient. 

She could wait until the opportunity reared its head. A security flaw, lockdown, power outage, escaped patient. Anything. That's when she did her best work. 

Finally, Ava pulled a collection of Emily Dickinson poems off the shelf. She wasn’t much for poetry, but perhaps it would grow on her. 

As best she could while shackled, she walked to the door, brandished her book for Gary, and gestured to the hall: _alright, I’m ready. Take me back._

Gary roughly grabbed her shoulder and pushed her into the hall. Ava shot him a look over her shoulder.

“Shut the hell up,” he growled. 

Ava scowled, but didn’t spare him a second glance. 

“Hey, Ava,” Jennifer, one of the women on the ward, spoke through the grating on her window. “What’s it like fucking the Surgeon? You must like silver foxes, huh?”

The younger woman waved her middle finger at Jennifer as she passed. _Goddamn nympho_ , Ava thought. _Jokes on you, bitch._

Gary hit the back of Ava’s head. Jennifer cackled. 

Ava repressed the hot anger boiling in her stomach and pushed herself out of her body. She knew, intellectually, that she was being pushed into her cell, unshackled (with a heavy hand), and left in the confines of her small room, but inwardly Ava followed her mind down several different tracks- eventually coming to the memory of one of the many hot, humid summer days of her childhood. 

_“Bébé,” Ava’s mother held out a hand. “Pass me the knife.”_

_The young girl, hair just as wild, tore her attention away from the lizards crawling through the underbrush just long enough to hand her mother a small knife. “What is that, mama?”_

_“Ça isit,” her mother’s weathered hands expertly cultivated the yellow-flowered plant. “Plan Saint John; Saint John’s wort. If you are to have any herb at your disposal, Avaline, this is it,” she handed a cutting to the child. “It heals wounds, treats snake bites, and all manner of doulé. But,” her mother caught her gaze. “Be careful, bébé. Be wise. Know yourself and your herbs. These modern medicines do not take kindly to Saint John’s. You could just as easily kill as you could save.”_

The muggy air still hung in Ava’s memory. It was that time of the year, wasn’t it? New York summers were strikingly different from her home and she struggled to keep time, but the days were long and hot. She didn’t wear a jacket most days. Her hair was definitely frizzy enough. 

Ava returned to herself. She carefully set the library book down on her bed before staring down into the yard from her window. _Ah,_ she thought. _It is summer_. Ava focused on the “weeds” straddling the fence, taking note of what Claremont hadn’t bothered to trim away. Maybe she could take care of more than one problem, if she played her cards right. 

A familiar figure strode out onto the yard, making a beeline for an inmate. The Whitlys. Ava tilted her head. The younger, Malcolm, appeared frenzied, excited, but restrained. He spoke to his father, who stood relaxed at the end of his tether, from a safe distance. Malcolm reached into his pocket and presented a handful of photographs to Dr. Whitly, who causally flipped through and remarked upon them. 

By their body language, Ava knew. She knew. They had found it. The ledger. _Finally._

* * *

“That’s peculiar,” Dr. Whitly stopped on a single picture. 

“What?” Malcolm risked a step closer.

“The space you found this in,” he outlined the open panel with his finger. “It’s quite large. For a cryptex, that is.”

“You think there was something else?”

“Hm,” Martin scratched his beard. “Maybe a book? A journal or something? And it was replaced with the cryptex?”

Malcolm leaned over, studying the image. “You’re right,” he muttered.

“Ah, isn’t that nice?” Martin grinned. “Turns out, I am helpful. This is why we work well together.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Sure,” he said. “I need to speak to Morvois.”

“Oh, that’s going to be a problem.”

“Why?” Malcolm was growing irritated.

“She doesn’t take visitors. Or phone calls. The only way to talk to her is-,”

“Through you,” Malcolm snatched the photos back. “Of course. Of course, that’s the only way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for y'all's kind comments! Personal s/o to @sandobaito! I really appreciated your feedback on how my writing felt like an episode. Also, thank you to @noisaj, @wednesdayaddams1010, and @sunshine10248 for bookmarking my work!

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: who-is-a-heretic-now  
> writing tumblr: solange-annick
> 
> follow me for more pson content or drop into my ask box for absolutely no reason whatsoever


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